Remnants of the Past
by Tabbitha Gylls
Summary: What if Rick had someone with him from the beginning? As the world as we know it begins to crumble under the increasing threat of the diseased walkers, renegade Abigail Mitchell is used to group hopping when things start to get worse. Things could change when she comes to King County, Georgia. I do not own The Walking Dead or the characters (except for Abigail) OC POV. Slightly AU.
1. Chapter 1

Clutching the handle of the blood covered axe in my hand, I scan the devastating scene of the road in front of me. Cars lie dormant and crashed into houses and street lights, trash and lost sentiments are strewn in every which way, and bodies are sprinkled across this godforsaken sight. I clench my teeth, but my stomach has long since been trained to hold down the bile it so longs to excrete. It's been nearly three months since the world has gone to shit. I can vaguely remember worrying about such trivial things as what I was going to wear the next day. Now the struggle is if I'm going to survive long enough to see the next day. Cannibalistic, reanimated corpses roam the streets and haunt the lives they once lived as living human beings. Food is becoming scarce, clean water is becoming hard to find, and _live_ people even more so. Chaos broke out and everyone was trying to escape, trying to outrun this disastrous plague. Everywhere I look, there's evidence for cases in which people failed against this pandemonium. Yet, here I stand in this hell of a world, trying to survive.

I glance down at the watch on my wrist and decide I need to head back to Morgan's house. I met Morgan Jones and his son, Duane, a few weeks back in this small town of King County, Georgia. They had been held up in an abandoned house here since this whole thing went down and I was passing through. They offered a bed if I could offer my help and a deal was made. To this day, that's where I've been. I make runs to the stores in town and such for food and other items we might need. I've been out all day and I had a bag of goodies on my back to show for it.

As I walk, I feel the handle of my Glock 17 bump against the small of my back. I keep my eyes moving back and forth for any sign of life. There is nothing that I can see right now. It might not be quite as difficult to make it back today. It didn't take much longer for me to find out that I shouldn't be so quick to judge good situations.

Something catches my eye, moving slightly in the distance. I stop for a split second and grip the wooden axe handle in my hand. I look around for anything else in the immediate area before I advance my attack. Nothing. I cautiously approach the feasting reanimate with my weapon raised. I can hear the scratchy moans and the ripping of flesh and bone get louder as I draw near. A pool of blood sits in the street around the walker and his meal. The walker crouches in his construction worker's attire, garnished in blood and guts, over his picnic that is too distorted to determine anything other than it was once human. I edge around a car with a broken windshield and a missing tire; glass liters the ground around it. I scrutinize the area once more, careful not to step on any of the broken glass. My eyes are locked on the devouring corpse. The thing stops it boisterous feast and focuses his yellowy, glazed eyes on me with human remains hanging from his torn jaw.

The construction worker scrambles to get off of his knees. I rush and plant my axe into his skull, slicing deep. Everything is happening all too fast and I don't notice the walkers closing in on me. I see one from the corner of my eye and the next thing I know, I'm on the ground with the thing on top of me. My backpack is ripped from my back and my axe clangs to the ground behind me as I struggle. The thing bites its half exposed teeth and snarls as I press my forearm to its neck preventing it from biting me. She has only one arm lying limply to her side, thankfully. I gather all of my might and push the one armed walker off of me, knocking down another one in the process. I scurry around; trying to arm myself but my axe is too far away. I try to army crawl to it, feeling small shards of glass dig into my skin through the sleeves of my thin jacket. I reach for the handle but I gasp as a cold, scaly hand wraps its bony fingers around my ankle.

Reacting quickly, I kick the thing in the face with my free foot; tearing its dangling nose completely off of its rotting skull. Its grip holds tight on my foot and it continues to snap at me. I try to wrench my foot out of its dead grasp, but the only response is a loud, hollow pop. I scream out in sudden pain and shock. The pressure of the walker's death grip on my most likely dislocated ankle makes the pain even more prominent. Without thinking, I grab a large shard of glass in my bare hand and embed it into my attacker's brain. It falls limply at my feet with three inches of glass sticking out of its head. Two down. There's no way I can be absolutely sure about how many more there are because my body kicks into hyper drive. It all feels like a dream‒ like a nightmare.

I somehow manage to get to my feet and I reach for the Glock, cock it, aim, and fire. Three corpses fall lifeless to the ground before me; as they should be. I'm alone now, but I know I need to move or I'll have company soon.

I shakily tuck my gun into the back of my beltline and retrieve my bag. My right hand stings as I lift the strap onto my back. I hiss in pain as I examine my palm. Two deep gashes run the width of my palm and the creases of my fingers. My own blood drips out of my hand and into the street, joining that of the walkers. I tear a piece of cloth from the bottom of my shirt and wrap it tightly around my hand. I'm limping now; any pressure on my ankle causes it to radiate in torment. I grab my axe off of the ground and use whatever energy I have left to hobble off in the direction of the Jones's house.

When I arrive a few houses away from the Jones's, I see Duane standing over a body, wielding a shovel, and screaming excitedly for his father to be aware that he took one down. I jog towards him, feeling a bit faint and keeping as much pressure as possible off of my ankle. There's a walker coming towards the thirteen year old boy and Morgan comes out from across the street to dislodge a slug in the walker's brain. It buckles to the ground immediately and Morgan keeps his focus on his son. The walker at Duane's feet begins to rock back and forth like he's trying to get up. I can see his pale figure now; the walker wears a hospital gown and a pair of boxers. Fresh blood drips from his nose and mouth. I can see a nearly soiled bandage attached to his side and his blue eyes look bewildered.

"Did he say something? I thought I heard him say something," Morgan rushes over and pushes his boy backwards.

"He called me 'Carl'," Duane backs up, confused.

"Son, you know they don't talk," Morgan then changes his focus to the fallen man and raises his gun. "Hey, mister… what's that bandage for?"

"Wh-what?" the dazed man manages.

"What kinda wound?" Morgan waits but the man seems unable to answer. "You answer me, damn you. What's your wound? You tell me… or I will kill you."

"Morgan!" I say. The man looked to me and his head slowly falls back to the ground, unconsciousness consuming him. I rush and check his pulse and forehead for a fever. I look back to Morgan with one question in my eyes. He is reluctant, but he reaches for the unconscious man's legs. He knows we need to get off the streets and we can't just leave him out here to die. We hurry to the house as quickly as permitted carrying a 160 some-odd pound man along with my near utter exhaustion. I begin to feel pain in my ankle with every step I take and my arms and hand sting under the arms of this dormant stranger.

"What happened out there? I heard gunshots," Morgan asks in a hushed voice as we near the house.

"I know, I'm sorry," I huff. "I had to, but I'm fine. I got it taken care of."

"All this shooting is going to draw in a lot of walkers…" the African American man looks around the suburb street cautiously. I nod and we proceed into the house.

We carry him inside and take him into the spare room on the first floor. We tie down his limbs just in case he turns.

"I'll take care of him," I nod to the man and then give them my pack. "Here, you guys can go through this. I grabbed you a little something Duane. Hope you like it."

Duane smiles and begins to pilfer through my bag. He finds a few magazine type bound books and his face lights up.

"Comics books! Thanks Abby," the boy smiles up at me and hands the pack to his father so he can go get lost in the world of the comics I brought him.

"Thank you, Abigail," Morgan repeats his son. "You need help?"

"Nah, I'll be fine. I call if I need anything or if he wakes up," I assure him. "Don't worry."

Morgan nods and leaves me to my work. I shut the door and turn to the man lying unconscious on the bed.

"Okay then, let's get to work," I murmur to myself.

After I had taken care of him, I turn from the bed where the wounded stranger lay and gingerly peel my elbow-high, plastic cleaning gloves off of my hands. I wore them to prevent getting his blood into any of my wounds as I redressed his. As the thin plastic presses gently against my currently sensitive skin, I wince and grit my teeth quietly. After struggling to successfully remove the first glove without too much pain, I decide it's going to hurt either way. _Screw it_, I say to myself and yank the second off, almost as if it were a band-aid. I bite down hard, mashing my teeth together in agony. A moan seeps through my tightly clenched jaws and I slap my unwounded hand over my mouth to quiet myself. I breathe furiously through my nose, but the intervals begin to slow. I need to get the glass out of my skin and bandage myself up to prevent infection. I can feel a line of sweat forming at my brow and my face turning hot. I can't let Morgan or Duane know, lest they think I've been bitten. I have to do this by myself.

With the door shut already, I turn to the table on the side wall of the room and contemplate my options. First I wrap my ankle tightly and then I remove my jacket so I could have more accessibility in my tank top; expressing the same reaction I had with the gloves. Dried blood cakes my arms and a layer of fresh blood expands over that. I roll a stained, white washcloth tightly and with one last, deep inhale, I place it in my mouth and breathe through my nose. I sit in a chair at the opposite corner of the room with a pair of tweezers in my right hand that still remains gashed. In my left hand, I clutch another balled up washcloth in my white-knuckled fist. I bring my fist up to my face to get good visibility on my wounded arm. Trembling, I raise the tweezers closer to my arm. My breathing gets heavier the closer the instrument gets to the multitude of remnants lodged in my skin. Inches away from the first piece, I exhale greatly and bring the tweezers away as I pant and heave quick gasps through my silencing cloth. _Come on, come on! You can do this, dammit! Just do it!_ I try to encourage myself. I go after the shards once more, but it seems as if there is a magnetic force field around my arm that can't be penetrated. _Okay. You can do it this time. For real. You got this. This is nothing. You got this. It'll be over before you know it._ Take three on removing the fragments. _Shit! I can't do this. _

Gripping both washcloths in my hand and in my teeth, I go for it. The prongs of the tweezers are on the edges of the particle and I can feel it move ever so slightly with the shaking of my hand. I squeeze my eyes shut as well as the jaws of the tweezers and yank. A muffled cry erupts from my throat and my breathing is rapid once more. I drop the inch-long piece of glass into a plastic bowl on the floor. I hold my left hand to my mouth as I feel tears accumulate in my eyes. I quiver violently and shivers are sent through my spine. I look back to my glass-infested arm and a little bit of me dies. _That was only one God. Damn. Mother. Fucking. Piece._

It takes me nearly forty minutes to extract nearly seventy-five percent of the fragments. The bowl is halfway full of glass shards varying in shape and size. I'm tired of crying and have grown numb to the once debilitating pain and the now useless washcloths lie in a ball on the floor. I manage to remove the last few pieces without even wincing and exert a long, hearty exhale like I'd been holding my breath for the past hour. Exhausted, I look down to the floor; blood pooling at my feet. There's a lot more than I expect and I am beginning to feel faint. I rise to my feet, weakly, and stumble over to the table. I prop myself up against the solid wood of the table top. To ward against any further infection, I clench my teeth and pour hydrogen peroxide over my contusions. I feel the stinging now. I breathe in a quick and unexpected breath through my teeth as my arm bubbles and the peroxide goes to work. I wash my arms in water now that the bubbling effect has gone down. I place some large, square gauze pads over the wounds and I swathe them in medical wrap. As I'm wrapping my arms from elbow to wrist, I turn to look at the slowly stirring stranger. His eyes blink repeatedly, bringing him into reality. He pulls at the bindings connecting him to the bed. He looks down at himself and finally to me, completely confused.

"Don't worry, I just changed your bandage. It was looking really gross," I finish my first wrap. "What was it? Your wound?"

"Gunshot," his accent is definitely Georgia based.

"Gunshot…What else? Anything?"

"Gunshot ain't enough?"

"You could just answer my question and we won't have any problems, okay?" I finish the second one and move onto my hand. "Did you get bit?"

"Bit?"

"Bit? Chewed? Maybe scratched? Anything like that?"

"No. I got shot. Just shot. That's as far as I know," he stares at me as I finish bandaging my hand. I sit down on the bed next to him and I extend my hand towards his head. He flinches backward.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, just let me," I say and he stays still this time. I feel his forehead and his cheeks. "You seem cold enough now. Fever would have killed you by now."

"I don't think I have one," he says.

"No. It would be hard to miss," I stand to put my jacket back on and then walk towards the door, open it, and throw my head out. "He's awake."

The sounds of chairs scraping against the hard wood floor and footsteps emerge from outside. Before too long, Morgan appears , quickly heading our way with a determined expression plastered on his face. Duane trails his father, carrying a wooden baseball bat.

"It's a gunshot, nothing else," I report as they enter the room to examine him.

"Hmm, you sure?" Morgan pushes past me and comes to the side of the bed.

"Yeah, pretty sure."

"She take care of you good, eh?" Morgan nods to me and the man nods slowly. Morgan pulls out his pocket knife and holds it in front of the wounded man's eyes. The man backs into his pillow and his breathing picks up. "Take a moment to look how sharp it is." He now points it at the man's face causing him to retreat even farther into the pillow. "You try anything, on my boy, on me, on that girl right there… I will kill you with it, and don't you think I won't."

Morgan cuts the man's bindings and stands at the foot of his bed.

"Come on out when you're able."

The man crosses his arms over his chest and Morgan grabs Duane and they leave without looking to me again. I look him over once more and then turn to take my exit. Joining the pair in the kitchen, I frailly help them prepare a dinner of canned pork 'n' beans.

"You okay, Abigail?" Morgan asks with concern. "You look like shit."

"Thanks, just the thing every girl wants to hear," I give him a feeble smile. "I'm okay, just tired."

"What happened to your hand?"

"Oh that?" I turn my hand so my palm is facing upward. "Walkers attacked me and I fell in a bunch of glass. Nothing else, I can assure you. Sorry about the mess in the room in there."

"It's okay, I just wish you would have told me. I could have helped you," Morgan stirs the pot and I just nod my head. "What about your ankle?"

"Sprained. Took care of it."

"It's still going to slow you down."

"Trust me, it feels better than jumping out of a second story window," I give a little laugh thinking back on memories from before.

Morgan looks up behind me and I turn to see the stranger wrapped in a blanket from the bed, coming out of the room that acted as his cell. We all stare at him in silence as he walks through the doorway into the connecting living room. Duane sits down at the table and Morgan and I step into the living room to watch the man.

"This place…" the man looks around, from the floor to the ceiling. "Fred and Cindy Drake's."

"Never met 'em," Morgan says.

"I've been here, this is their place," the man keeps walking.

"It was empty when we got here," Morgan insists. The man nods and walks over to the window to look through the heavy blanket covering it.

"Don't do that," I say and he stops to look back at me. "They'll see the light. There's more of them out there than usual. I knew I shouldn't have used my gun today. The sound draws them, and now they're out all over the street. It was so stupid."

"You weren't the only one, but we need to be more careful now," Morgan addresses me like a child. "Hell, I shouldn't have shot. But it all happened so fast and I couldn't think."

"You shot that man today," the man's voice quivers slightly.

"Man?" Morgan shrugs.

"Weren't no man!" Duane corrects.

"What the hell was that, came out of your mouth just now?" his father demands.

"It _wasn't _a man," Duane says.

"You shot him, in the street, out front, a _man_," the man argues.

"A man? Seriously? You need glasses, it was a walker," I say with a teaspoon of sarcasm as I lean against the doorway. Now the man looks even more confused and Morgan points to the table, inviting him to sit.

"Sit down, before you fall down," Morgan begins to dish out the canned luxury. "_Both _of you."

I uncross my arms and sluggishly make my way to my chair mumbling my unsupported protests under my breath. The man sat in the chair next to me.

"Blessin'!" Duane announces and we all look to one another. Duane grabs mine and his father's hands and I look to the newbie and nod at my vacant hand. He hesitantly places his hand in mine and Morgan continues with the prayer.

"Father, we thank thee for this food, thy blessings. We ask you to watch over us in these crazy days. Amen," Morgan finishes and Duane echoes his father's 'amen.' We all start to dig in but Morgan is still fixed on the strange man beside me. "Hey, Mister, you even know what's goin' on?"

"I woke up today… in the hospital," the man explains. "Came home, and that's all I know."

"But you know about the dead people, right?" Morgan asks.

"Yeah, I saw a lot of that. Out in the loading docks, piled into trucks."

"No. Not the ones they put down. The ones they didn't. The walkers. Like the one I shot today. 'Cause he'da ripped into you, try to eat you, take 'im some flesh at least. And you woulda been left for the others if it wasn't for that girl right there," Morgan points his finger at me while holding his spoon in his hand. The man looks to me and Morgan continues. "Well, I guess, if this is the first you're hearin' of this, I know how it must sound."

It's quiet for a moment.

"They're out there now? In the street?" the man nods toward the window.

"Yeah," Morgan says disconsolately.

"They get more active after dark, sometimes. That's why I always try to make it back from my runs so I don't get caught out there among them," I explain.

"Maybe it's the cool air, or hell, maybe it was just the gunfire today, but we'll be fine as long as we stay quiet," Morgan conveys. "One thing I do know, don't you get bit. I saw your bandage and that's what we were afraid of. Bites kill you. The fever burns you out, but then after a while… you come back."

All is silent once more.

"Seen it happen," Duane's voice breaks through the stillness. The man stops and Morgan reaches over to lend a comforting smile to his son and we continue our meal.

After dinner, I clean up and the men go sit down in the living room. That's basically our living quarters at the moment so we don't have to be far from one another. Three beds litter the floor and Morgan and Duane work to put one together for the new comer. I finish and sit down on my own bed, now able to somewhat relax. I close my eyes as I lean against the wall. Morgan sits on his bed next to the opposite wall while Duane lay next to him. The new guy sits propped up against the couch across from me.

"Carl," Morgan says through the peacefulness. My eyes snap open and focus on the newbie. "He your son? You… you said his name today."

"He's a little younger than your boy," the man explains.

"And he's with his mother?"

"I hope so."

"Dad," Duane says sleepily. "Did you ask him?"

"Your gunshot," Morgan laughs. "We all got a little bet. My son thinks you were a… bank robber."

"Yeah, that's me, deadliest Dillinger of Kapow," the man entertains the though then turns serious. "Sherriff's deputy."

"See, I was close," I laugh weakly. "I was thinking you were some kind of cop."

Morgan just nods and we sit there for a moment. I feel the threat of sleep coming to claim me and my eyes are forced open again as a car alarm goes off outside. Duane jumps up but his father calms him and tries to explain what happened without really knowing himself.

"It's nothing. One of them, probably just bumped a car or somethin'," Morgan says.

"You sure?" the man stands up.

"It's happened once before. It went on for a few minutes or so," I grab my gun from under my pillow and go to the window. "Kill the lights."

I peel back a part of the blanket covering the window and Morgan looks out.

"It's the blue one right there, same one as last time. I think we'll be okay," Morgan states.

"That noise… won't it bring more of them?" the man asks. Duane nears and looks through the parting in the blankets.

"Nothing we can do about it now," I shrug and place my gun back in its hiding spot. "Just have to wait it out 'til morning."

"She's here," Duane gasps.

"Don't look. Get away from the windows!" Morgan instructs. His son lingers. "I said go! Come on!"

The boy jumps onto the bed and burst into sobs. His father goes after him to comfort and quiet his boy. My heart aches for him. The man still stands at the window, watching the walkers. He moves to the door and looks through the peephole. I go and join him, standing close. As the man looks outside, the door handle begins to shake. The man looks to me slowly and finds that I'm just as frozen as him. We back away, staring at the turning knob, and return to our beds.

"She, uh… she died on that bed in there. In the other room," Morgan's voice is shaky. There wasn't‒wasn't nothin' I could do about it. That fever, man. Her skin gave off a heat like a furnace. I shoulda‒I shoulda put her down, man‒ I shoulda put her down. I know that but I… You know what? I just didn't have it in me. She's the mother of my child."

The newbie and I sit there consumed in a lack of words. The knob continues to rattle behind me and then suddenly stops. It takes a few minutes, but we all lay back on our beds uncomfortably. My body stiffens and my muscles scream. I roll onto my back and the tightness makes it difficult to breathe for a few moments. I'm able to relax my muscles a little, feeling them contracting uneasily. Before I even had the chance to deliberately close my eyes, the exhaustion overwhelms me and sleep absorbs my consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning comes all too soon. I hear the soft, deep whispers of the men in the kitchen‒ each 'S' they say pierces through my pitiful slumber. My eyes creak open and I slowly manage to sit up. My back aches and pain crawls across my arms every time something brushes against my skin. It feels like I laid my head down only moments ago and yet it's time to get up. My movement interrupts the men's conversation as it attracts their attention. They resume talking as I get ready to stand up. Wrapped in blankets, Duane is a motionless burrito, ignoring the conversation taking place just feet away from him. As I rise to my feet, my ankle buckles and I nearly fall.

"Morning," I mutter as I shuffle stiffly to the kitchen table where the men sit.

"Good mornin' sunshine," Morgan takes a sip from his tin mug. "Made some coffee."

"Thank God," I begin to make myself a cup. "How long have you guys been up?"

"Not long," our guest, the Sherriff's deputy, explains. "I'm Rick, by the way. Rick Grimes."

"Abigail Mitchell," I lean against the cabinets as I sip the steaming cup of black bitterness that I've acquired a taste for. "How are you doing?"

"I'm alive," Rick looks sincerely to Morgan. "Thank you. You could have just left me… but you didn't. Thank you."

"Don't look at me. Look at her," Morgan nods to me. "I hate to say it, but if she weren't here, your ass would still be out there. No offense."

"I guess that's understandable," Rick breathes a laugh and turns serious to me. "I owe you what life I have left."

"Don't worry about it," I say and quickly change the subject. "What's the plan for today?"

"Rick was telling me that he lived in that house we found him at yesterday. He wanted to go back and get a few things," Morgan explains.

"If it's not too much of a problem for y'all," Rick adds quickly.

"Yeah, sure. I'll make sure we get there and back in one piece," I push off in search of something for breakfast.

"I think we should all go," Morgan inputs and I stop and look to both of the men. "Abigail, don't act like we haven't noticed. I can't ignore it; you're barely capable‒"

"I'm fine," I insist with more strength than I feel within me.

"You're not fine, your ankle‒"

"I said I'm fine."

"You're rundown‒"

"God dammit, Morgan! I said I'm fine."

"Stubborn as a goddamn mule…" Morgan mutters. "Fine. We're still going. Rick's not in the best shape either. But we should start out soon. We have other things we could get done today."

"Right. I'll get Duane up," I go to wake the boy up. I shake him softly and quietly beckon him from his blissful sleep into this hell of a reality. The men lower their voices but my finely tuned hearing picks up their words.

"You sure she's okay?" Rick whispers.

"No, but she'd go postal if I told her what to do. That girl… she's somethin' else," Morgan exhales in bafflement. "She's a damn good shot and a hell of a fighter, though. Smart, too."

"C'mon Duane. Time to get up, buddy," I say louder. Reluctantly, the boy stretches and sighs heavily. He just looks at me with sorrow in his eyes. I rub his back and nod. "I know."

After we all get around and consume a meager breakfast, Morgan gives Rick a change of clothes in exchange for his hospital gown. Once he's situated, we have to remove the boards covering the door so we can get out. I'm armed with my Glock, backpack, and dirty axe as usual. Morgan grabs his gun just in case and Rick is given a baseball bat. Luckily his house is not too far, but we don't know how many walkers linger from last night's disturbance. There aren't any immediately as we walk out of the house into the bright sunlight. A few steps out the door and we see one sitting against the white picket fence that once divided two peoples' property. I grip my axe silently but Morgan looks to Rick and they both nod in understanding. The Sherriff's Deputy covers his face with a police officer's riot mask and goes after the motionless walker with the wooden bat. The walker senses him and slowly turns to look at his hopeful meal. It hisses and begins to crawl towards him. Rick raises his bat and with some hesitation, he brings it down on the creature's head with tentative force. It stalls the walker but the thing continues after him. Rick strikes again, but with more force exerted than the first blow. Again and again, Rick beats the walker's head, splattering blood across his white tee shirt. The walker's head is now mush but Rick keeps going. He seizes into his wounded side and we all rush to him. He throws his helmet off and holds up his hand, telling us to back off.

"I'm fine," he strains. I grab his arm to help him up.

"No you're not, you're a dumbass," I say quietly. "But that makes two of us."

He looks at me as I pull him up and just works on composing himself. He staggers forward and assures me he's fine. I let go of his arm and let him lead us to his home.

As we come to the front porch of Rick's house, Rick drops his bat and helmet. He walks through the open front door, determined. He moves quickly like he knows exactly what he came for and what he's doing. My axe is held limply in my hand as I look around the empty house.

"They're alive," Rick says as he walks through the house. "My wife and son. At least they were when they left."

"How could you know that? By the look of this place‒" Morgan asks skeptically.

"I found empty drawers in the bedroom. They packed some clothes‒ not a lot, but enough to travel," Rick explains.

"You know anybody could have broken in here and stolen clothes, right?" Morgan tries not to give him false hope.

"See the framed photos on the walls?" Rick points to the bare, white walls. "Neither do I. Some random thief take those, too, you think?"

He moves to a cabinet and opens it.

"Our family albums, our pictures, all gone," Rick elaborates. Morgan begins to laugh.

"Photo albums...," he continues laughing and sits down at the dining room table. "My wife… same thing. There I am packing survival gear, she's grabbin' photo albu‒"

"They're in Atlanta, I bet," Duane speaks up.

"That's right," Morgan's voice cracks.

"Why Atlanta?" Rick inquires.

"The refugee center," a sudden flush of familiarity runs through my head. "It's a huge one, they say. Military protection, food, shelter. They told people to go there, said it would be safest. That's where I was headed when… well, when my plans changed."

"Plus they got that disease place," Duane chimes.

"Center for Disease Control," Morgan reenters the conversation. "Said they were workin' out how to solve this thing."

Rick looks at him, comprehending everything we're saying then goes into the kitchen. I hear a cabinet open and the jingle of keys.

"We're going to need to go to the station," Rick says.

"Well, Sherriff, lead on," I say.

I manage to hotwire a car near Rick's house to gain easier passage to the police station. A little ironic, if you think about it. I could see guilt in Rick's face as he watched me perform the carjacking, like he felt as if he had to do something about it. I have never been really excited about cops, per say. In fact, I have the worst stereotype about them etched into my brain: narcissistic and seemingly split personalities, secretly alcoholics, fake heroes, actually scumbags, extremely forceful… just simply assholes. Rick Grimes doesn't really seem to meet any of the criteria. Yet. I keep an eye on him anyhow. From the backseat, I watch over his shoulder as he drives us to the police station.

The keys Rick had gotten from his house open the doors of the station. I joke about how I would have loved to break in instead, just for the sake of irony. With Rick and our flashlights guiding our steps, we venture through the darkness. A faint light glows about ten feet in front of us to the right. It turns out the locker room is the source. Standing amongst the haunted lockers, Morgan, Duane, and I watch silently as Rick turns the knob of a long-since-used shower. A moment passes and nothing happens. Suddenly, the showerhead sputters to life, spraying drops of water to the tiled ground. A simultaneous laugh passes through us as if it were a miracle to see a working shower.

"Gasline's been down for maybe a month," Morgan says in disbelief.

"Station's got its own propane system," Rick puts his hand in the stream of water. "The pilot's still on."

"Ladies first," Morgan sighs, motioning me forward.

"Don't pull that 'ladies first' shit on me. There's three of you and I'm not taking a shower before your son, Morgan," I put my foot down.

"There's another locker room down the hall, I'll show you," Rick laughs. He leads me out into the considerably darker hallway while the other two ready themselves for the heavenly treat of a hot shower. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the sudden blackness, but my flashlight helps tremendously.

"I could have found it on my own, you know," I say.

"I guess it's just a courtesy thing of me. This was always like my second home in a way," Rick explains.

"Very, uh… homey…" I shine my flashlight around to the ceiling and floor. He laughs softly. I breathe my words now. "That's kinda how my dad was…"

"Your dad? He on the force?"

"Was… way back," I clear my throat. "So you headed to Atlanta after this?"

"Yeah, I think the refugee camp would be a good place to start looking for my wife and son."

"You really seem sure they're alive."

"They've got to be," Rick trails off. "You said you were headed to Atlanta in the first place, right?"

"Yeah."

"You're welcome to tag along if you like. Maybe you'll find what you're lookin' for," he offers. I stop for a moment.

"It's definitely something to think on," I reply. "Thanks for showing me down here, even though it was perfectly unnecessary."

"Sure thing," he smiles and turns to walk back down the dark corridor.

I push open the door and sunlight showers down on me. I squint, being momentarily blinded, and ready my axe out of habit. There's nothing, no one; just an empty locker room. I promptly track down some shampoo and soap and start the water. I can hear the boys' jubilant praises reverberating off of the tiled walls down the hall. Trying not to be too excited I quickly peel off my layer of grimy clothes and my bandages and step into the unfamiliar stream of steaming water. A rush of relaxation and pleasure comes over me like a wave when the water hits my skin. The warmth is soothing on my overly tense muscles but stings in my recently administered wounds. Despite the slight discomfort, I've never been so happy about a shower in my entire life. I find myself laughing, just laughing. I don't know the reason why, but I continue for just a little longer.

The water starts to run cold as I finish rinsing the last of the soap out of my hair. With a disheartened huff, I turn the shower off and the seemingly cold air rushes to my wet skin. I grab a white towel and wrap it tightly around my body. I wring out my long red hair, feeling the noticeably more silky texture that was foreign to me. I locate a first aid kit and re-bandage my wounds. I'm beginning to become desensitized to the pain from my ankle. Like all the other pain I've experienced in my life, I just choose to block it out. It's best for everyone. Thankfully I'm carrying a set of cleaner clothes to change into instead of my dirty ones. I don't have much to my name, just whatever fits in my rather small hiking pack that I scored a little bit after this all went down. A few changes of clothes, some toiletries, a couple of books, ammo, and a single picture of a once supposedly happy family are all I have left.

I dress, feeling refreshed, and go out into the black hallway to wait for the boys.

"Well, you clean up nice, Sherriff," I say to Rick, his grungy beard shaved and his police officer's uniform crisp and tidy.

"Not so bad yourself," he responds as he leads us to the gun vault. There's a flood light in the cage which reveals a wall lined with shotguns and handguns and shelves stacked with ammo. Rick unlocks the padlock. "A lot of it's gone missing."

"Dad, can I learn to shoot? I'm old enough," Duane asks.

"Hell yes, you're going to learn. We gotta do it carefully, teach you to respect the weapon," Morgan replies firmly.

"That's right. It's not a toy. You pull the trigger, you have to mean it," Rick instructs as he starts picking up weapons. "Always remember that, Duane."

"Yes, sir," the boy says obediently. His father hands him a bag.

"Here. Load up," Morgan tells him. Rick hands him a Remington 700. I recognize it instantly. My dad had one when I was a kid. It sat next to the door in the corner, leaning against the wall.

"Take that one. Nothing fancy. Scope's accurate," Rick explains. Morgan nods and steps out of the cage to test out the scope.

"It's a good gun," I tell Morgan over his shoulder.

"Yeah, it'll do," Morgan pauses. "Rick talked to me, said he asked you to go with him."

"I can't‒"

"Abby, listen to me: go. Don't worry about us, we'll be right behind you. That's where you've been tryin' to get all this time anyway. Please. It's okay."

I think for a second.

"Okay."

* * *

The police car is quiet. We departed from Morgan and Duane not five minutes ago and are now en route to Atlanta. I sit in the passenger seat with my sprained foot on the dash. A few minutes later and Rick pulls over next to a park.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask as he gets out.

"Gotta do something. It'll just take a sec," he assures me. I watch as the Sherriff's Deputy walks through the grass with a determined expression. After a while he kneels and then a gunshot rings out. He walks back to the car, leaving a lump of a body behind him. His determined look has faded into one of sorrow. He removes his hat and throws it into the back as he steps in. I sit silent. I don't want to ask; I don't want to know.

A few miles down the road, Rick picks up the microphone part of the CB in the squad car and begins to broadcast to anyone who might be listening.

"Broadcasting on emergency channel. We'll be approaching Atlanta on Highway85. Anybody reads, please respond. Hello. Hello. Can anybody hear my voice? Anybody out there? Anybody hears me, please respond. Hello, can you hear my voice?"

No response.

"You really think people can hear that?" I look out my window.

"We've got to hope so," Rick says solemnly. Silence.

"Damn, how far away is Atlanta anyway?"

"We're near the outskirts. Not too long, now."

The car makes a dinging sound. We both look down at the gauge panel that now shines an orange light in the shape of a gas pump.

"Wonderful. Out of all the times in the world to run out of gas, it has to be in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the apocalypse," I say with great sarcasm.

"Maybe there's a house somewhere out here where we could borrow some," Rick suggests.

"You have a lot more faith in humanity than I do, that's for sure," I laugh. "But I guess that's our only chance now. Look, there's one down there."

I point to a house in the middle of a field sitting next to a wooden barn.

"That just might be what we're looking for."

We turn into the long driveway and make it down to the house. We both get out; Rick goes for the gas can in the back and I quickly pull my Glock out from the small of my back. Rick goes up to the house calling out "I'm a police officer" and "Can we borrow some gas?" I scan the area around for any stray walkers, my gun at the ready. Rick looks in the windows after minutes of no response. He backs off the porch.

"Two dead inside," he reports.

"Dead or walkers?"

"Dead."

"Well… we can siphon it," I point to the idle truck next to us. Rick nods slowly assuming I have prior knowledge of this along with my hotwiring abilities. Then from behind the barn, a whinny erupts unexpectedly. I spin around with my gun raised but Rick tells me to lower it. We walk around to find a single horse held up in a pen. "Or we could use the Pony Express…"

I used that term for sarcastic purposes, but the Sherriff has to offer the goddamn animal a proposition.


	3. Chapter 3

After seemingly endless hours on a goddamn horse, we finally reach Atlanta. I could've never been a cowgirl. Being on this creature has terrified me to no end. I'm sure I've nearly strangled Rick for fear of falling off. He hasn't said anything about it though, he just laughs every so often.

As we enter the city, it's a complete ghost town. The scene is identical to King County except there's tanks, road blocks, and tall buildings added to the mix. I don't see many walkers so far, yet those I do see are lying in a pool of brain matter, slain once and for all. We slowly gallop through the Atlanta streets with ease. Since our pace has lessened, so has my grip around Rick's stomach. I still feel like I'm going to die from this horse, but not as much now. Our steed carries us past a charred bus and spooks as a pair of walkers exit the bus. Rick reassures the horse that they're nothing we can't outrun. Like the dumb creature knows what he's saying.

Our speed picks up slightly and we turn a corner, slowing once we're safely away from the stray walkers. There's a tank on the side of the road with a dead walker lying near the opening topped with a pair of crows. They peck at the dead thing's open wounds, tearing them even deeper and devouring the tainted flesh. We stop and stare for a second in silence, half in awe and but mostly pure disturbance.

"Hungry?" I ask with unintentional sarcasm, unable to peel my eyes from the dining birds and disgust distorting my face. The creature beneath me stirs at Rick's command and I notice he's looking around to the sky.

"Do you hear that?"

"What?" I look around to try and discover what he's talking about.

"Is that a helicopter?"

"Helicopter? Where?"

"There! HI-YAH!" Before I can find out where exactly 'there' is, Rick digs the heel of his boot into the horse's side and it bursts forward. As the horse rears back, I feel my unprepared arms slip from around Rick's midsection and as my brain catches up with the situation, I grab at anything to keep me from falling. I grab at the gun bag on Rick's back but my grasp falls too short. The cloth slips right through my fingers and the next thing I know, I'm off of the horse and I fall right on my back onto the hard pavement.

I gasp for air as my lungs are instantly evacuated on impact. I roll onto my arms and knees and fall forward due to the additional pain thanks to the wounds on my arms. I look after Rick riding away, most likely not realizing I've fallen just seconds ago. I call to him and come to the realization that, that could have been a stupid mistake. Before Rick and our horse companion turn the corner, the animal whinnies furiously and backs up. In response to my call, Rick turns to retrieve me. Something's wrong. His face is panicked and he keeps looking behind him. Only moments later, I discover he wasn't, in fact, returning for me necessarily. It occurs to me that a rather large horde of brainless reanimates are now in his pursuit, moving as one furious wave. I begin to scramble up with the idea that I'd jump on the horse behind Rick like I'd seen in several movies before. I'm not sure if it'll work or not, but it's the best I can come up with at the current moment. However, before I can get six inches off of the ground, I hear a chorus of low guttural noises resonating from behind me. _Shit._

With swarms of the undead closing in on us, I head to the closest form of cover, which so happens to be a tank. I frantically crawl, as quickly as my injured body will permit. Once under the tank, I watch as dozens‒ hundreds‒ of walker feet close in around the frightened horse's stamping hooves. My heart is racing uncontrollably and my mind can't focus. I want to help Rick, but I can't move. Rick falls to the ground, his Sherriff's hat and the gun bag falling off of him and out of his reach. The horse is fatefully pulled to the ground creating a limited buffet for the gathering walkers. One comes after Rick, but he kicks it off quickly. He begins to crawl away but realizes he's trapped.

"Rick!" I call, my voice cracks and my mouth is dry. He instantly changes his direction and moves under the tank with me. Several walkers follow him. I kick at some closing in on my side. I look up and see a miraculous opening into the tank and lift myself quickly into the interior. Rick shoots five times underneath me, trying to hold off the walkers. Unaware of my discovery, I see the hopelessness in the film of sweat drenching his face. He raises his Colt to the side of his head.

"Lori, Carl, I'm sorry‒" he mutters.

"Come on!" I pull his arm up and he breathes a sigh of relief. Hastily, Rick raises himself into the tank with my help, and backs up as far away from the opening as possible. I slam the hatch down and lock it while Rick leans against the wall of the tank next to a dead man in a military uniform. Rick looks at him with sudden fear and disbelief, but it fades as he discovers our friend is motionless. Rick goes for the Berretta holstered to the soldier's side and examines the clip. "Thanks for leaving me on my ass back there," I say bitterly.

"I'm sorry, once I realized you were gone, it was too late, everything happened so fast," Rick explains. Next to him the mistakenly deceased solider stirs and looks at Rick.

"Rick!"

Rick gasps and raises his gun to the walker's chin.

"NO!" I stand to stop him, but it's too late. The deafening gunshot rings in my eardrums and bounces off the walls of the tank. My vision doubles and my ears, like it'll do any good now. Time seems to slow as I fall back to the floor and Rick stumbles and falls in the floor next to me. Entranced, he looks up at the ceiling in either horror or inspiration and jumps into action. He lifts himself through the hole by jumping on a chair placed directly underneath it. He just stands there and looks out for a moment then shuts the hatch promptly, falling back onto the floor.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a dumbass?" I pant. He nods. I can feel my usual sense of cool drain from my veins as I look at his frightened face. "It's not good, is it?"

He shakes his head.

"Maybe it'll be like with the car last night, you know. Maybe they'll just clear out after a while," I say with little hope in my voice to back up my words. His face is sullen. "Hey, I'm supposed to be the pessimist. Don't you do this."

He just sits in silence, holding the soldier's gun in his hands.

"That poor horse…" I breathe sincerely as I lean back against a wall. I rub my hands over my face and heave a great sigh. I can barely hear the hopeless sounds of the walkers outside but that is the only noise for a few minutes.

"How old are you?" Rick asks finally.

"Twenty-eight."

He returns to silence.

Suddenly, there's an odd noise. It sounds like… feedback from a walkie-talkie.

*Hey dumbass.*

Rick and I both look at one another.

*You in the tank.*

We both look to the CB system on the other side of the tank.

*Hey, you alive in there?*

Rick jumps up and hits his head on a pipe but keeps moving to the walkie-talkie.

"Hello- Hello," Rick says with excitement.

*There you are, you had me wondering.*

"Where are you? Outside? Can you see us right now?"

We quickly discover that this man, whoever he is, has eyes on the outside. He explains the scene to us, not making us feel very confident about the situation. Then after he explains that we're surrounded by walkers, he tells us that it would be in our best interest to make a run for it. _Now._ The idea would have sounded completely insane on before, yet in this new fast paced way of living, it doesn't sound completely crazy. I have to think about it for a second, but I come to the conclusion that it is in fact our best bet. A great majority of the walkers are busy with at the Horse Meat Buffet making it a little easier for us to slip away.

Going back for the gun bag isn't an option. We have to move quickly and make every shot count as we run through the streets to find this God-sent _living_ person is out there helping us. Taking deep breaths, we ready our guns and ourselves for the hatch to open. _Three, two, one_. We push the hatch open knocking several walkers off of the tank. We then proceed to hastily jump off of the military vehicle, which by no means was in any way shape or form, _aiding_ my current ankle situation. The jump hurt Rick too who's limping in front of me. He shoots down walkers in front of us and I take down those in back.

"Not dead!" cries a man that jumps out of an alley way with his hands up. "Come on!"

We ignore the walkers that are closing in on us and focus on getting the hell out of there. The shorter, Asian man runs in front of us, leading us to a fire escape ladder where, once we're up it, we're able to get a moment's breather.

"Nice moves there, Clint Eastwood. And uh, little Red," the man gulps. "You the new Sherriff, riding in to clean up the town?"

"It wasn't our intention," Rick explains.

"Yeah whatever, _yeehaw_. You're still a dumbass," the man says.

"See, I'm not the only one who thinks so," I laugh hoarsely. "I'm Abigail."

"And Rick. Thank you," Rick offers his hand.

"Glenn. You're welcome," Glenn shakes Rick's hand and then looks down at the walkers crowding around the base of the ladder. "Jesus… we gotta go."

Rick shoves the Beretta into one of the outer pockets of my pack. Thankfully, I was smart enough to attach the straps across my chest so it wasn't lost in all of the recent action, unlike the gun bag. We need those guns, but there's no way right now to go and get them. Instead, our ever optimistic friend, Glenn, guides us up the second ladder, assuring us "It'll be the fall that kills us." Glenn leads us to a rooftop opening that takes us into a building. From there we venture down the fire escape above an alley way.

"I'm back. Two guests. Four geeks in the alley," Glenn reports into a walkie-talkie as we fly down the stairs. I hobble as fast as I can in their pursuit. We near the bottom and the men stop in front of me as the walkers sense us. I pull my gun from my belt and start towards the staggering cadavers. Before I can make it two steps, a door bursts open revealing two people covered in protective gear and armed with wooden bats. They instantly attack the walkers, smashing their brains on the ground.

"Come on! Let's go!" Glenn instructs and we follow him into the building. The other two are quick on our trail, slamming the door behind us.

Upon our entrance, a gun is shoved promptly in Rick's face and bad names start flying.

"Son of a bitch! I otta kill you!" A blonde woman pushes Rick up against a line of file cabinets. I aim my gun steadily at the back of her head.

"Lady, I wouldn't," I threaten.

"Just chill out Andrea! Back off!" one of the men warns her.

"Abigail-"

"Rick," I grit my teeth but stay focused on the woman named Andrea. Her people try to get her to back down as well. "Look, you put the gun down and I put the gun down. Got it?"

"Come on, ease up," a black woman begs.

"Ease up? You're kidding me, right? We're dead because of these stupid assholes," Andrea says.

"Andrea! I said back the hell off," the Hispanic man comes closer to her. She waits for a moment. "Or pull the trigger."

"Pull it, bitch. I dare you," I growl.

She stops and painfully lowers her gun. I, in turn, lower mine.

"We're dead. All of us. Because of you," she looks at both Rick and me. I move closer to him.

"I don't understand," Rick says. The guy to talked Andrea down grabs Rick by the arm and we all start walking.

"Look, we came into the city to scavenge supplies. You know what the key to scavenging is? Surviving. You wanna know the key to surviving? Sneaking in and out! Tiptoeing in and out, not shooting up the streets," he explains.

"Every geek from miles around heard you poppin' off rounds," the other man adds. We're now at the front of a department store, facing the glass paneled doors.

"You just rang the dinner bell," Andrea points out as God knows how many walkers bang against the glass.

Rick and I exchange a terrified look. We all back up further into the store, like it would do us more good to be back a few more feet if those things succeed at breaking in.

"What the hell were you two doing out there anyway?" Andrea asks.

"Tryin' to flag the helicopter," Rick says quickly.

"Helicopter? Man, that's crap. There ain't no damn helicopter," the black man says matter-of-factly.

"You were chasin' hallucinations, imaginin' things. It happens," the black woman explains.

"I saw it! She saw it too!" Rick looks to me. I stay silent for a moment. "Didn't you, Abigail? You saw it too."

"I never actually saw it," I say quietly and his face falls. "I was knocked off the horse before I could tell anything."

"Hey T-Dog, try that CB," the Hispanic man instructs the other man. "Can you contact the others?"

"Wait, there's more of you?" I ask with a shred of hope still lingering in the pit of my stomach.

"The refugee center?" Rick adds.

"Yeah, the _refugee center._ They got biscuits waiting at the oven for us," the black woman remarks sarcastically.

"No signal," T-Dog shakes his head. "Maybe the roof!"

A gunshot rings out from above us.

"Oh no, is that Dixon?" Andrea looks to the ceiling. The group starts to move, heading towards the source of the disruptive noise. We all scurry up the stairs that spiral towards the door that gives us rooftop access. The shots continue until we barge out onto the roof. A man stands on the edge with a rifle in his hands. When he sees us he turns with the smile of a drunkard.

"Dixon, are you crazy?!" the Hispanic man fumes.

"You better be nicer to a man with a gun," Dixon just laughs and jumps down from the wall on the ledge. "Huh? Only common sense."

"Man, you're wastin' bullets we ain't even got, man!" T-Dog yells. "An you're bringin' even more of 'em down here on our ass! Man, jus chill!"

"Hey! Bad enough I got this taco vender on my ass all day, now I'm gonna take orders from you? That'll be the day," Dixon says.

"That'll be the day? There somethin' you wanna tell me?" T-Dog raises his voice.

"T-Dog, maybe you should just leave it," the other man tries to stop whatever is about to happen. Rick and I watch attentively.

"Naw, I wanna hear what he has to say."

"It's not worth it man," the Hispanic man tries again. "Now Merle, just relax. Okay? We got enough trouble as it is."

"You wanna know the day?" Merle Dixon presses.

"Yeah," T-Dog insists.

"I'll tell ya the day Mr. _Yo_. It's the day I take orders from a _nigger_," Merle's words are meant to be poisonous. Instantly, T-Dog springs into action and starts to punch the brusque redneck. Merle hits him in the face with the butt of his rifle knocking him to the ground. The Hispanic man tries to back Merle off of him but he continues administering a beating. Rick pushes past me and the cop in him starts to show big time. Receiving a punch in the face, Rick, himself, falls to the ground. Merle's just punching anyone and everyone now. This plus my utter stupidity and my inability to fully think through my actions before doing them causes me to get punched to the ground as well.

Rick comes over to check on me but I wave him away. Merle is on top of T-Dog now, pounding his face in. He then pulls out a pistol from the rim of his belt and presses the barrel in the beaten man's face. I get to my feet and wipe fresh blood from the side of my mouth as I watch Andrea beg for T-Dog's life. Merle sits there, silent for a moment, and spits on T-Dog's chest.

"Yeah! Alright! We're gonna have ourselves a lil' powwow!" Merle stands with his gun still in his hand. Glenn, Andrea, and the other woman bring T-Dog back away from him. "Talk about who's in charge. I vote me! Anybody else? Huh? Democracy time y'all. Show of hands. Huh? All in favor? Come on! Let's see 'em!"

The Hispanic man raises his hand.

"All in favor?" Merle asks again. Everyone else raises their hands. I watch Rick grab Merle's rifle and then look back to me. I nod and he proceeds forward. "Good. That means I'm the boss now. Anyone else?"

"Yeah," Rick smashes Merle in the face with the butt of the gun as he turns to face him. Merle falls and Rick is now on top of him with silver cuffs in his hand. He slaps one of the cuffs to Merle's wrist and the other around a pipe next to him.

"Who the hell are you, man?" Merle asks pitifully.

"Officer Friendly," Rick replies. "Look here Merle, things are different now. There are no _niggers_ anymore. There are no inbreed, dumb as shit, white trash fools either. Only dark meat and light meat. Only us and the dead. We survive this by pulling together, not apart."

"Fuck you, man," Merle replies bitterly.

"I can see you're makin' a habit of missin' the point."

"Yeah well fuck you twice."

Rick presses Merle's repossessed gun to the redneck's head.

"I would be a little more polite to a man holding a gun. It'n it common sense?" Rick reiterates Merle's earlier words.

"You wouldn't. You're a cop."

"All I am anymore is a man lookin' for his wife and son," Rick removes the gun from the man's forehead. "Anyone who gets in the way of that's gonna lose. I'll give you a moment to think about that."

Rick pats him down and finds dope in his pocket, throwing it over the side of the building. Merle protests loudly and threatens Rick, but he pays no attention to him. Instead, the Sherriff's Deputy walks to the edge of the building, clutching his hand. I follow quickly behind him.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah, I'm good," Rick says. "Your ankle?"

"Well, can't say it feels wonderful right now, but it's fine," I laugh and then it's silent for a moment.

"That's three times now."

"Three times what?"

"You've saved my life three times."

"Oh, don't worry about it. I mean who's counting anyways?" I ask rhetorically.

"I am," Rick says sternly.

"Damn, way to drop the bomb on me."

"Why did you stand up for me to them?"

"Well, I know you… okay-ish, but I don't know a damn thing about these people. You're the only person I'm willing to trust right now," I explain.

"You're not Atlanta PD," the Hispanic man appears behind us. "Where you guys from?"

"Up the road a ways," Rick replies quickly.

"Well Officer Friendly and Little Red from up the road a ways," the man looks over the edge. "Welcome to the big city."


End file.
